


As The Devil Drives

by rowenablade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agnes Nutter's Prophecies, Also this was supposed to be like one quarter as long as it ended up being, And it's entirely because no one in this fic can shut up, And one I projected onto all of the characters, Attempt at Humor, Awkward Conversations, Awkward Sexual Situations, Aziraphale is Not Innocent (Good Omens), BAMF Anathema Device, Banter, Crack Treated Seriously, Crowley is a Tease (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, F/M, Fluff, Good Omens Kink Meme, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Laughter During Sex, Magic, Newt Respects Women, No Angst, Nobody gets jealous in this because it's my fic and I said so, POV Anathema Device (Good Omens), Ritual Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Magic, Snark, That was basically my thought process here, Then Chapter 1 is gonna rock your world, Unless you have an awkward conversation fetish, Vaginal Sex, What Have I Done, Wings, You know that John Mulaney "This might as well happen" bit?, all the smut is in chapter 2, awkward everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25691128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenablade/pseuds/rowenablade
Summary: Anathema needs assistance with a ritual. Specifically, she needs a demon's explicit assistance. The instructions are very clear. With pictures, even.She does know one demon, kind of. She's not sure if he'll go for it. But it's worth asking, if there's a chance of keeping everyone safe from divine and/or infernal retribution. Isn't it?
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Anathema Device, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 162
Collections: AJ’s personal faves, Good Omens Kink Meme, Ixnael’s Recommendations, Just Enough Of A Bastard to be Worth Knowing Biblically





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=1048680#cmt1048680) delightfully detailed prompt from the Kink Meme. I wasn't able to work in everything the prompter suggested, but I sure had fun trying. Un-betaed, un-Britpicked, unrepentant.

It was eight months after the world was supposed to have ended, and Anathema Device was sitting in the kitchen of Jasmine Cottage, moving around a cold mug of coffee and frowning at a book.

The book was not _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_. That book had updated its status from “day-to-day reference” to “treasured family heirloom that stayed on the mantel where it belonged.” Since retiring from the descendant business, Anathema had been by turns irritated and exhilarated by the surprises a prophecy-free life had to offer. While many unexpected events- her first real date with Newt, Pepper’s twelfth birthday party at the Tadfield Candy Warehouse and Paintball Range (formerly Tadfield Orthodontics)- turned out to be quite pleasant, sudden mishaps- plumbing failures, Newt’s recent attempt to load music onto his smartphone that had resulted in nothing but the same U2 album playing in the car over and over- could still throw her badly for a loop. She had been, if she did say so herself, quite disciplined about not giving into the habit of turning to Agnes for answers when things got weird. But she wasn’t above the occasional relapse, and things had really gotten _exceptionally_ strange.

Still, the book she was consulting was _not The Nice and Accurate Prophecies._ She knew better than to think that would help her now. But Agnes had amassed a significant private library of spell books over the course of her life, dutifully maintained by her descendants, many of them transcribed in the witch herself’s own hand. It was such a volume that Anathema was now moving from frowning to scowling at, the familiar handwriting calling up a blend of frustration, dread and daughterly fondness that only Device women really understood.

She picked up her phone, thumbed off the music app on which the U2 album was playing- dear God, it had spread to hers, she was going to have _words_ with Newt when he got back from his errands- and Googled the name of a bookshop in London. She was not surprised to find that the shop in question did not have a website, but she did manage to find a phone number, buried on the third page of results. 

She dialed, and after four rings she was greeted by a breezy, rather distracted-sounding voice.

“Fell and Company Booksellers. If we’ve got it, you don’t need it.”

“Um.” Anathema didn’t remember the angel sounding like this. “I was hoping to speak to Mr. Fell, please?”

“He’s with a customer, I’m afraid. You’re welcome to call back on third Sundays of the month between six and eight o’clock, or every other Thursday before seven-thirty in the AM.”

Something about the near aggressively laid-back tone finally clicked. “Oh, is this, um, I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever got your name. Mr. Fell’s…colleague? This is Anathema Device. From Tadfield.”

“Tadfield…oh, Book Girl!” The voice on the other end brightened. “How’s tricks? Bash into anyone’s car lately?”

“I’m very well, thank you, mister, uh…”

“Just Crowley. Listen, I was lying about Aziraphale being with a customer, let me just see where he’s gone…Oi, angel! Phone’s for you!”

There was the rustling of a hand had been placed over the receiver, followed by some faint conversation Anathema couldn’t make out, before the same voice returned.

“He’ll be a minute. Inventory.”

“Of course. So, uh…” Once again, Anathema was finding herself utterly flummoxed by an unexpected turn of events. She’d need to talk to the demon eventually, of course, but she’d been hoping to run her options by the angel first. He seemed the more even-tempered of the two, not to mention less likely to enact vengeance if her suggestion offended him (or so she assumed).

“Are you working in Mr. Fell’s shop now?” she settled on asking. 

“Oh, helping out here and there, you know. Guess you could say I’m the ‘and Company’, these days. It’s actually kind of a fun little puzzle, tempting people _away_ from buying books, sort of like learning to put a tie on someone else…hang on, here’s Aziraphale now.”

Another rustling and muffled exchange of words, and then a softer, much more formal voice came on the line. 

“Hello? Miss Device?”

“Yes, Mr. Fell, it’s Anathema. Sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to get your advice on something.”

“Of course, my dear. But tell me, how _are_ you doing? No more cycling at night anymore, I trust?”

Anathema closed her eyes and sighed. Since moving here, she had been very conscious of wanting to be a good representative of her home country. But she had been having a very stressful week, and she had a day ahead of her that promised to be just _full_ of awkward conversations, and she sensed that a good dose of American forwardness might be sorely needed before this was all said and done.

“Mr. Fell, I think some of you and your friend’s old bosses are stalking me and Newt.”

A pensive silence, and then, “Ah. That’s unfortunate. I rather hoped that Crowley was just being paranoid.”

“So you’ve been seeing them too? The black cars, the men in the white suits, the-“

“Strange pigeons, yes. Oh dear. I must say, I’m surprised they’ve been bold enough to follow you to Tadfield. I would have thought what with young Adam’s influence-“

“Well, that’s just it.” Anathema nervously tapped on the book in front of her. She was relieved that she didn’t have to go through the tedious business of convincing the angel that she wasn’t seeing things, but that also meant that her tentative plan might actually come to fruition. “We haven’t had any trouble at all in Tadfield. But the moment we leave the town limits, it all starts up again, and I wasn’t planning on staying here _forever_ , and Newt needs to look for work.”

“No, of course, we can’t have that. Although I’m afraid I’m rather at a loss for what to do. Heaven and Hell must still be cross about the Armageddon business and are, what’s the expression? Putting tabs on us, if you will. Waiting for us to slip up.”

“Yes, well, that’s why I called. I think I’ve found something in Agnes’s personal library that could help us. A spell.”

“Oh! That’s wonderful. Did you need some help with the translations, or perhaps to borrow some props? I’ve put most of the blessed objects in storage since Crowley moved in, but I’m sure I could-“

“It’s actually a little more complicated than that,” Anathema cut in, still trying to maintain as businesslike a tone as she could. She was talking to a six-thousand year old being; surely he’d heard it all before.

“Complicated? Whatever do you mean, my dear?”

Anathema told him. While she was in the middle of it, Newt came home and there was a sudden interruption in her reception, so she ended up having to say everything twice. It did not get easier the second time.

~*~*~*~*~

Crowley watched Aziraphale’s expression change from bemusement, to patrician concern, to a sort of stiff-upper-lipped forced sensibility Crowley tended to associate with Second World War movies.

When he hung up the phone he knotted his hands together and smiled weakly at the demon, who had stopped pretending to not be listening in after hearing the word _paranoid._

“Fancy a trip to Tadfield, old chap?” Aziraphale asked, his voice pitched to a level meant to indicate levity, but coupled with the stricken look in his eyes was fast approaching mania. 

“What was that about?” Crowley slid out of the chair he was draped across and glanced suspiciously out the shop windows. A black SUV was parked across the street, as it had been for the past eight hours. Before that it had been an unmarked white van, the sort associated with various unseemly abductions. Shift changes. They had started collaborating. Not good.

“It seems you might have been correct about us being…observed, I suppose. Miss Device and her young man have had some similar trouble.”

“Hmm. She thinks she can fix it?”

“Yes. Well. She has located a spell. But certain, um, conditions need to be met. She asked me to relay the details to you and see if you would be amenable.”

“Oh?” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Something occult, then? Virgin sacrifice? Ritual flaying? Must be pretty nasty, if it’s got you so worked up.”

“More…old-fashioned than that,” Aziraphale answered, and then went on to elaborate.

Crowley ended up having to sit down again very soon afterward.

~*~*~*~*~

The next day, shortly before four o’clock, Anathema sat at the same kitchen counter sipping from a bottle of kombucha, watching Newt make tea. He set a large pot to steeping before setting into the curious ritual of setting up cups, saucers, milk and sugar on a tray. He also unwrapped a sleeve of shortbread cookies and began to put them on a plate, at which point Anathema lost patience with silent observation.

“Are you sure this is all necessary? I mean, do they even _drink_ tea? Or anything at all?”

Newt frowned. “I don’t know. Is there a reason why they wouldn’t?”

“They’re not human.”

“Oh, right.” He looked down at the tea tray. “Well, it’s still important to be good hosts, don’t you think? We’re asking kind of a big favor of them.”

Anathema watched Newt’s hands arrange the cookies into a neat circle, and decided, all things considered, she was lucky he was being so good-natured about the whole thing. She took another sip of kombucha.

“And besides,” Newt continued. “Shadwell and Madame Tracy will appreciate it, even if they don’t.”

Fermented tea shot into Anathema’s sinuses, setting her into a furious coughing fit as it burned the back of her throat. 

“You invited _them?_ ” she sputtered when she finally caught her breath.

“It concerns them as well, doesn’t it?” Newt passed Anathema a glass of water. “They’re being followed, too. You saw the van parked outside their bungalow. And Madame Tracy said a black dog followed her home yesterday.”

“Shadwell must have pitched a fit over that.”

“He’s calmed down quite a bit since he retired,” Newt offered helpfully. “Anyway, they don’t have to be present at the, er, ceremony. But I thought we should get their permission before involving them at all.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Anathema gulped her water and got up to find some aspirin.

As it happened, Madame Tracy and Shadwell arrived first, bustling in and helping themselves to the tea service, much to Newt’s satisfaction. Shadwell dragged Newt out into the back garden to admonish the young man about the state of the lawn while he smoked a cigarette (a sharp look from Anathema had stopped him in his tracks when he made to light one inside) and Tracy ’nipped off to the loo’, so Anathema was standing in the kitchen alone when the Bentley pulled up outside.

She watched as the two figures in the car appeared to finish up an animated conversation, then the driver got out and meandered around to open the door for the passenger. 

They looked, to Anathema, much as they had looked at the Tadfield Air Base. That is to say, not so much like people as like ideas, dressed up as people. Aziraphale, with his perfect posture and just-so mode of dress, seemed to radiate exactly the type of cheerful reasonableness that Americans in England expected to encounter in the locals. She could no more picture him wielding a flaming sword than she could picture him driving a monster truck.

As for the other one…

Anathema’s first guess would not have been _demon_ , had she been asked to guess Crowley’s occupation. _Something in the music business_ would probably have come up first, or maybe _unscrupulous photographer_ , but either way something more evil-adjacent than outright infernal. It was the walk, Anathema thought. Evil was supposed to stride, or march, or prowl, not saunter with its hands in its pockets and _definitely_ not almost trip over a pot of gardenias by the driveway.

He was, Anathema admitted to herself, handsome for his apparent age. Not the type she would have gone for had he been human, but a good deal better-looking than the illustrations that had accompanied the spell. That was something. Then again, judging by the subtle squeeze of hands she witnessed between the two of them as they came up the walk, he had clearly progressed to “more than friends” status with the angel, so that might add another layer of awkwardness to what was already promising to be titanically uncomfortable. 

She opened the door before they could knock, making the both of them jump.

“Hello!” Aziraphale said brightly. “So sorry we’re late, the M25 was just _dreadful_.”

“No problem,” Anathema responded, not even trying to match the angel’s cheerful tone. She knew from experience that trying would just make her sound like a crazy person. “Come on in. Um. Newt made tea, if you’re interested.”

“Why, that would be lovely, thank you, and-“

“Bollocks!” Crowley yelped as he stepped over the threshold. “What on earth was that?”

Anathema and Aziraphale both looked at him, startled, as he clutched his head and wildly looked around.

“Is everything alright?” Anathema asked, worrying that the celestial forces stalking them had somehow made their move.

“Something, I dunno, _burned_ me just now,” Crowley said with a scowl. “You put wards on this place? Not exactly hospitable, is that?”

“None that I know of.” Anathema, who was still quite unaware of the horseshoe above the door and was not wild about the demon’s accusatory tone, took a short breath and resolved to just power through whatever the day had in store for her. “Why don’t you two make yourselves comfortable?”

“You!” Shadwell roared at the new arrivals as he came in through the back door with Newt in tow. “Ye pair o’ hellspawns! What business have ye, darkenin’ this gud lady’s doorstep?”

“Bloody hell,” Anathema heard either Crowley or Aziraphale mutter.

“Calm down, Mr. Shadwell,” Newt said gently, taking the old man by the elbow and guiding him toward the kitchen. “Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley are here to help us, there’s no need to be rude.”

“Help? Get us involved in another great bloody disaster, more like. As for you.” He pointed an accusing finger at Aziraphale. “Stick to yer ane body this time, ye ken? The jezebel is under my protection.”

“Everyone will be leaving here in the exact same body they arrived in, Mr. Shadwell, no need to worry,” Aziraphale said primly, while Crowley appeared to be trying to burn a hole through the floor with his eyes. “Miss Device, it might be best if we moved things along?”

“God, yes,” Anathema replied. She had to walk past Crowley to get to the kitchen, and couldn’t help but notice him flinch when their arms brushed. 

_Be an American. Power through it,_ she told herself, and went to unwrap another sleeve of cookies.

~*~*~*~*~

Twenty minutes later, during which many cups of tea were poured, Madame Tracy cooed with delight upon seeing Aziraphale and engulfed him in a hug (much to the angel’s near apoplectic surprise), Shadwell had to be told twice by Newt not to touch some of the more witchy-looking family heirlooms placed about for decoration, Anathema pried Aziraphale away from Madame Tracy for several minutes of agitated cross-referencing, and Crowley began shooting increasingly frantic and pleading looks at the Bentley parked outside, the six of them clustered around the kitchen table, looking at one of Agnes Nutter’s handwritten books of spells.

 _Onn The Dispelling of Unwellcomme Observers_ , began the page in front of them.

_Mark well, thee Subject of yon Spell shall be protected from alle Heralds of Realms beyonde this, be it Heaven, Hell or Worlds unknown. None who wish them harm may approach, nor espy them uninvited, nor caste upon them Misfortune, until they pass beyonde the Vale to meet their final Judgmente._

“That means for life, doesn’t it?” Newt asked. “We’re protected until we die?”

“So it would seem,” Aziraphale agreed. “Or, in the case of Crowley and myself, until we meet our final judgement. Whatever that means.”

“Until yer dark master calls ye back unto his unholy gullet, I reckon,” Shadwell growled.

“We’re not too worried about that,” Crowley muttered. “ _You_ on the other hand, Shadwell, could stand to be a bit more polite. The spell doesn’t stop you from going to Hell, you know. Just keeps them from coming after you until You-Know-Who decides on your permanent lodgings.”

“So we know what it’s supposed to do,” Anathema jumped in before Shadwell could grumble some retort. “My question, and one I’d appreciate your opinion on-“ she nodded at Aziraphale, seated next to her, and Crowley, standing and reading over the angel’s shoulder- “is will it work?”

“It should,” Aziraphale replied, tapping a finger delicately on the page. “I found nothing in the text that looked out of sorts. And Agnes was a real witch, after all.”

“Little suspicious, isn’t it?” Crowley offered. “The exact sort of spell we need just happens to be in your private collection?”

Anathema shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Our best guess is Agnes transcribed the spells she thought were…most likely to be useful to her descendants. Perhaps aided by her gift of foresight. Sort of a practical accompaniment to the prophecies.”

“Hang on, so you’re saying she _knew_ this was going to happen, and that’s why she wrote down the instructions?”

“It’s a theory.”

Everyone at the table fell silent at that for a moment, perhaps wondering if Agnes was observing them from some world unknown of her own, laughing at their mutual mortification.

“Well,” Madame Tracy sighed. “In that case, I suppose it was good of her to be so…thorough.”

After the initial paragraph, Agnes’s words took on a much more instructional tone. There were also illustrations, although they appeared to be more artistic interpretations than snapshots of the future. The witch in the drawings didn’t even look much like Anathema.

That didn’t stop her from turning bright red as Aziraphale began to flip through the pages.

“Goodness,” he murmured. “These directions _are_ rather specific.”

“Devilry,” Shadwell announced, pushing away from the table and clambering to his feet. “Devilry and damnation. We’ll be having no part of it.”

“You don’t need to be a part of it,” Newt said hurriedly. “We just need a lock of hair from each of you to ensure the spell protects you as well. You don’t have to lift a finger.”

“Laddie, if ye think I’m lettin’ yer girl here mix us up in some sort of voodoo-“

“Now, lovey, you’re getting yourself worked up again. Remember, your blood pressure?” Madame Tracy was up on her feet and guiding Shadwell out of the kitchen. “Why don’t you go out and have another cigarette, and I’ll talk some sense into young Miss Device, there’s a dear.”

The remaining four exchanged alarmed looks as Madame Tracy bustled Shadwell out the door, but when she came back she waved her hand airily and reclaimed her seat at the table.

“Don’t you worry about him, I’ll tell him we called the whole thing off and snip off a bit of his hair when he’s sleeping. Rude of me to trick him, I know, but he can be _so_ stubborn.” She picked up her cup of tea and leaned further over the book, causing both Anathema and Aziraphale to visibly tense. 

“Now, dearie,” she said to Anathema. “Will you be needing that sort of outfit? Because I may have a few things in the back of my closet you can try on.”

She pointed to one of the earlier drawings in the sequence, which showed a female figure standing before an altar wearing an ensemble that seemed more in keeping with music videos from 1983.

Newt blushed. Crowley’s eyebrows shot up above his glasses. Aziraphale hid his face behind his teacup.

“Um,” Anathema answered. “I don’t think the outfit is that important. I _am_ a little worried about navigating around all these candles- it looks like they have to be lit in a certain order, so they must be part of the spell.”

“Rubber cement,” Madame Tracy said immediately.

“Pardon?”

“Rubber cement. Under the bottoms of the candle holders. Sticks them right down, keeps them from falling over in the event of a little jostling. And you’ll be wanting to have some eye drops handy. All those candles plus the burning herbs, the smoke will have you itching like mad if you don’t plan ahead. Of course you _can_ take antihistamines, but I find those always make me sleepy, so-“

“Got up to a lot of Satanic rituals in your day, did you?” This from Crowley, with a faint trace of condescension.

“Heavens, no. But a lot of my regular customers back in the eighties enjoyed the spectacle, so I started offering it as a sort of fantasy package. Minerva Nightshade, I called myself.”

She paused and smiled, perhaps waiting to be asked for a snippet of Mistress Minerva’s dialogue, and when no such request came sniffed and turned back to the book.

“Anyway. Perhaps a robe would be more practical than that outfit. It can get awfully cold in those big cavernous spaces.”

“Hang on, that’s a good point,” Newt said. “Where is this supposed to take place?”

“Ah,” Anathema jumped in, relieved that the conversation was moving away from her potential wardrobe choices. “It does specify consecrated ground. There’s some churches nearby- what?” Aziraphale and Crowley were casting worried glances at one another. “Right, I guess breaking into a church is a problem for angels, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that,” Crowley answered, then turned to Aziraphale. “Is it?”

“Well, I’m not wild about that aspect, but, you know. ‘Needs must’ and all that. But the problem,” the angel turned to Anathema and looped an arm around Crowley’s waist, “would be for him, not for me.”

“How bad?”

“Well, holy ground, you know, it’s not exactly hospitable for my lot.” The demon began to fidget as he spoke. “Some of these, er, positions may be a bit difficult. To. Um. Maintain.”

“I’ve got an inflatable mattress!” Madame Tracy said at the same time Anathema said, “Obviously we should consider everyone’s safety first.” Crowley chose to respond to neither.

“So we’ve agreed the spell is worth attempting, then?” he asked, his voice so calculatedly neutral that you could have painted hospital waiting rooms with it.

“I think that’s up to the would-be participants, dear,” Aziraphale answered gently. Newt nodded faintly in agreement.

“Right. Miss Device, would you mind if we spoke in private for a moment?”

“Oh! Um. Sure.” Anathema looked around the table with the sudden feeling she was about to cross some sort of irrevocable threshold. “Newt, why don’t you show Mr. Fell and Madame Tracy your workshop?”

“Yes, well!” Newt rubbed his hands together briskly and beckoned the other two out of the kitchen. “You know how it’s possible to make a battery out of a potato? What I’ve done here is going to revolutionize the frozen chips market…”

Aziraphale and Madame Tracy trailed after him with equally mystified looks on their faces, leaving Anathema seated alone at her kitchen table with the strange, awkward demon.

Crowley shifted over to Aziraphale’s vacated seat next to Anathema, pushed the book away slightly, and reached into the inner pocket of his coat, bringing forth a hand-sized flask. He took a careful sip and then offered it to Anathema.

At the smell of smoke and the stinging in her nostrils Anathema’s eyes widened, wondering if she was being offered some hellish potion. Instead her mouth filled with the taste of very expensive Scotch. She swallowed and handed the flask back with an apologetic cough.

“Your bloke,” Crowley said, nodding his head in the direction Newt had gone. “Taking this all strangely well, isn’t he?”

“Newt is…” Anathema searched for the right word. “Open-minded. He’s had to get used to a lot of weird things in a very short time. He must be getting good at it by now.”

“Lots of lads don’t know they’re the jealous type until they’re given reason to find out. He going to make trouble, if that turns out to be the case?”

There was that vaguely accusatory tone again. Anathema frowned. “Trouble? Newt’s the world’s worst computer engineer. You’re a demon. How could he possibly make trouble for you?”

“What? No, not for me. I’m talking about you. Is he going to make life difficult for you if we do-“ he flapped his hand vaguely at the book, “ _this_ , and he feels some ways about it he didn’t expect to? I agree with what you said about safety.”

“Oh.” For a moment, all Anathema could do was stare blankly. That was…actually rather sweet of him to ask. She wasn’t used to such perceptiveness coming from men his age.

 _He’s not a man, and he’s not that age_ , she reminded herself. 

“Have you done something like this before?”

“Not for a very long time,” Crowley admitted. “And I was always more of an…in-the-background sort of player. But you hang around for the entirety of human history, you end up trying most things once.”

“So you’ve, er, done it? With-“

“With a human? Sure, although you’d have to throw a quick seance together if you mean to check my references.”

Anathema had a few other questions relating to that in mind, mostly concerning how closely Crowley’s anatomy resembled the creature in the pictures, but couldn’t bring herself to be that forward. 

“Anyway, to answer your question, no, Newt and I will be fine. Thank you for asking. And your, um, boyfriend? Will he mind?”

Crowley’s features softened at the word _boyfriend._ He really did have a very charming smile. “If anything I’m worried he’ll enjoy it a bit too much.”

Anathema drew back sharply. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“What’s that? Bless, no, not like that. He’s a gentleman.” Crowley glanced at the door as if worried the angel might be listening. “He just has a bit of a…penchant for the theatrical, let’s say. Do _not_ let him have any input on props.”

“Noted.” For the first time, Anathema managed to relax enough to laugh. 

Then Crowley reached up, removed his glasses, and gazed pointedly at Anathema. She felt herself tense up again.

They really didn’t look at all human, those eyes. Bright yellow, predatory and very, very old. It reminded Anathema that what she was considering was a mysterious and often dangerous ritual, and she would be taking risks not just with the physical safety of herself and her friends, but with her immortal soul.

“Do you think it’s a good idea?” she asked. Suddenly she very much wanted someone to tell her what the correct choice was. She missed Agnes.

“I think it’ll work,” Crowley answered carefully. “You seem to have a good head on your shoulders, and I know Aziraphale won’t skimp on the research. But we won’t do it if you don’t want to. You don’t need to give a good reason. Just say you’re out, and it’s done.”

“I…” Once again, Anathema found herself somewhat baffled. Were demons supposed to be this considerate? Who _was_ this person, anyway? “I think we should give it a try. If that’s alright with you. Is it going to be terrible for you, on consecrated ground like that?”

“Let me worry about that.” Crowley made a dismissive gesture and put his glasses back on. “There’s one other thing. If you want, I can, er, play up certain aspects of my nature. Old tempter’s tricks. Make you…a bit more uninhibited. Not that I’m saying you’d need that, or assuming that you wouldn’t, but, if you _did_ , it’s an option. But I don’t have to. Um.”

“Like hypnotism?” Anathema asked, disapproving.

“Go- Sa- Fuck, no. Nothing so crude. More like…” A strangled noise and another wave of the hand, as if the demon was trying to snatch the proper term out of the air. “Pheromonal calibration. Doesn’t affect your thoughts at all. But I won’t do it, if you’d prefer I didn’t.”

“I think it would be best if we were both as unimpaired as possible.”

“So you won’t be taking any of Madame Tracy’s antihistamines, then? Cause she _does_ have a point about the smoke.”

Anathema laughed again, then dug out her phone.

“Do you have a number besides the bookshop? It might be best if we stayed in touch, in case either of us has questions before the new moon.”

Crowley nodded and took her phone to program his number in. “Try calling, make sure I’ve got it right. I’ve had ninety-seven phone numbers, after a while they start to blur together.”

Anathema took her phone back and pressed the “Call” button. 

The familiar strains of U2 began to issue from the demon’s pocket.

“What the…?”

“Oh, goddammit,” Anathema muttered, and got up to find Newt.

~*~*~*~*~

Many conversations happened before the lunar cycle began anew and the ritual could be performed. Transcribed below are three of them.

~*~*~*~*~

“Margie! Those bloody pigeons are in the garden again! Have ye seen my- what in blazes have ye done, wumman?”

“Oh, don’t mind the mess, love. Just looking for a few of my old things to take to the jumble this weekend.”

“Ye can’t be serious, you’ll have the whole village whisperin’ of yer sordid past.”

“You old silly, worrying about my reputation. It’s hardly a thing to be ashamed about, these days. Just last week I met Barbara and Eunice for lunch and found out they were both working girls too, way back when.”

“Lord bless an’ keep us! Yer tellin’ me this whole tane is overrun with retired hoors?”

“I wouldn’t call three _overrun_. Anyway, what was it you needed?”

“What? Right, it’s those devil-birds again. All lined up outside, silent as the grave and watchin’ the house. Looking for me blunderbuss, to scare ‘em off back to Hell where they belong.”

“It’s in the parlor, darling. It _is_ awfully eerie, the way they just sit and stare, isn’t it? Are you sure you don’t want me ring Anathema again?”

“Nae, we’ll not be the reason the young lady beds down wi’ the devil. You’ve seen that flash bastard up close. Lord knows what perversions he’d subject the poor lass to, if’n we hadn’t talked her out of it.”

“Oh, yes, I’m sure it would be perfectly horrible. At the mercy of someone so dark and…tall and well-dressed.”

“Doesn’t bear thinkin’ aboot.”

“No, not at all… Hmm! Don’t you worry about a thing, you go out and handle those nasty old birds and I’ll have this cleaned up spit-spot.”

“Yer…gettin’ rid of _all_ yer old outfits, or…?”

“Mister _Shadwell_! What _ever_ are you trying to say?”

“Just curious!”

“Get a move on, you old goat. There’s dark forces amassing in the garden!”

“Right. Sure a soldier o’ righteousness’s work is never done.”

“Would the soldier of righteousness be so good as to put the kettle on once he’s seen to his duties?”

“Course. Chamomile?”

“No, real tea, please. I’ve some errands to run before supper.”

~*~*~*~*~

“No, angel, I’m calling this search off. There is no way in the language of flowers to elegantly communicate ‘We’re flattered you’ve entrusted us with your demonic sex ritual, now let’s try and make sure this goes as smoothly as possible.’”

“Just let me check this one last book, I could have sworn I saw something about rituals in Chapter Twenty-Six.”

“Face it, there were some situations the Victorians simply weren’t prepared for.”

“I suppose. Hmm. Do you think chocolates would be more appropriate?”

“I think the most appropriate thing would be _nothing_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, gift-giving is an important part of human socializing. Especially human courtship.”

“Angel, we’ve been over this. I’m not escorting her to a bloody cotillion. No one’s _courting_ anybody.”

“I just would hate for the young lady to feel unappreciated.”

“I really wouldn’t worry about her. From what I’ve seen she’s appallingly sensible.”

“I know, but humans can be so unpredictable when carnal acts get involved. Even witches. Remember Calpernia the Mad?”

“Oh, that’s hardly fair, I was nothing more than an outside consultant on that whole business. Wait, how did _you_ know about Calpernia the Mad?”

“We went to the same cordwainer.”

“I- You- No. No chocolates, no flowers.”

“It’s rude, is what it is.”

“Come off it, have you seen how human dating works these days? It’s all about texting one another pictures of their bits and pretending not to have seen them. I’ll look like a right prick if we do it your way.”

“Ah, yes, that reminds me.”

“I’m positively _dreading_ what you’re going to say next.”

“I was mulling over the spell’s text and I’m not sure your, hmm, standard-issue equipment is going to work.”

“…”

“Specifically this ‘he breacheth her womb’ part. Now you know I think your Effort is perfectly lovely, my dear, but if we’re to consider basic physics-“

“Can we _not_.”

“You want the spell to work, don’t you? Would be a shame if we went through all this trouble only to have it not work.”

“I don’t recall any complaints about physics when you were squealing for it the other day.”

“I’m quite certain I don’t _squeal._ ”

“Oh, challenge accepted, angel. Consider the gauntlet thrown.”

“I just thought I’d save you some potential embarrassment by mentioning it now.”

“Bugger it. I’m texting Anathema to see what she thinks.”

“What did she say?”

“She sent back a little picture of a man with his hand on his forehead.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure. Do you think she understood the question?”

“Send a picture!”

“ _Absolutely not._ ”

“You said that’s what humans do now!”

“Aziraphale, make yourself useful and open a bottle of wine, would you?”

“It’s ten in the morning, love.”

“So?”

“So, I think prosecco would be more fitting. Watch the shop while I nip around the corner.”

~*~*~*~*~

“Anathema? Are you asleep?”

“Mmph. Not anymore.”

“Sorry, it’s just…those men are back.”

“The white suits?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit. They’re watching the house?”

“Yeah. I got up to use the loo and saw them through the window. They’re just…standing under the streetlight. Watching.”

“Ugh.”

“You think I should go out and talk to them? Try to, I don’t know, scare them off?”

“Newt, I love you, but you’re probably the least scary person I’ve ever met.”

“It’s just creepy, isn’t it? I thought angels were supposed to be, y’know, nice. Like Mr. Aziraphale.”

“From what I understand it’s largely a matter of individual function. And I don’t think Aziraphale is a very typical angel.”

“No, I suppose not. Kind of makes sense, then, him and Mr. Crowley, doesn’t it? I mean, he doesn’t seem like a typical demon.”

“No. He doesn’t.”

“Dresses like one, though.”

“Yes.”

“Are you nervous? About the ritual?”

“No. Not really. A bit. You?”

“Same. A bit. I hope you’re, um, alright with me being there.”

“I’m alright with it. Are you sure _you_ are?”

“Yeah, yeah. I want to make sure you’re safe.”

“You’re very sweet.”

“And. Er. Just so you know, it won’t bother me if you, y’know, have an alright time. I mean, I know you said this is strictly business and I know the most important thing is the ritual goes successfully, but don’t think I’ll be cross if you don’t lie back and think of England the whole time, is what I’m saying.”

“Huh. You’re a pretty exceptional man, you know that, Newt?”

“I’m in love with a witch. I’d say exceptional is the bare minimum, don’t you think?”

“I love you.”

“Love you too. Sleep well. Oh! Looks like you got a text.”

“Oh, God, don’t look at it. I’ll explain in the morning.”


	2. Chapter 2

On the night of the new moon, when the sky was leaden with clouds and little flurries of snow were swirling through the air, a witch, a demon, an angel and an amateur computer engineer gathered in the basement of St. Florian’s Church in Lower Norton.

Said church had been chosen not for any particular consideration for its namesake saint, nor for its mutually convenient location, but because in place of a night watchman it employed an automatic security system that Crowley knew extensively and was able to circumvent with very little trouble. 

The space hardly qualified as cavernous, but it _was_ cold, and Anathema was grateful for the velvet robe she had borrowed from Madame Tracy. The former painted jezebel had offered her a choice between black embroidered with silver pentagrams or blood-red with black lace at the edges, and Anathema had opted for the former in hope that the religious iconography, however misplaced, would lend some spiritual heft to the proceedings. This attempt at gravitas was rather undermined by the fact that Newt was wearing a Flaming Lips T-shirt, and Aziraphale a lavender bowtie.

At least Crowley’s customary black attire seemed appropriate, although he could have shown up dressed as Glinda the Good Witch and his true nature would have been apparent in this setting. Every few seconds he winced and shifted from foot to foot, gravitating about the room in the random manner of someone trying to get reception on a recalcitrant mobile phone, searching, apparently, for that one spot that was _slightly_ less consecrated than the rest of the ground they were standing on. 

Aziraphale shot him a sympathetic look over Agnes’s spell book while Newt and Anathema went about lighting candles, in mismatched holders of varying heights. Chicory, bloodroot and cloves were burned in turn, and soon the low room was filled with dizzyingly aromatic smoke. The sudden ululation of the smoke alarm nearly scared them all out of their wits, and they definitely would have knocked several of the candles over if they hadn’t used the rubber cement trick. Aziraphale silenced the alarms with an irritated snap of his fingers, and Anathema rummaged in her satchel for some eye drops. 

Finally, the four of them stood around the circle formed by the candles. Inside the circle, neatly arranged, was a thin necklace of silver chain, a silver ring with a black opal set into it, a sachet on a string containing four locks of hair and two feathers, one white and one black, and a pink inflatable mattress, twin-size.

“Shall we begin?” Aziraphale asked calmly, turning to the correct page. Repeated readings of the spell had led them to conclude that two additional players were necessary to perform the required chanting and herb-burning, hence the presence of himself and Newt. He had also volunteered, enthusiastically, to be the one to read aloud the instructions and consult the illustrations for accuracy. It would be like directing a play, he’d opined. With that in mind he had set up a portable stereo in the corner that was playing some unobtrusive but ethereal music, and had made sure that everyone silenced their mobile phones.

“No time like the present,” Anathema sighed, and stepped between the candles into the circle, careful not to catch the hem of her robe on fire as she went.

“Very well. And I quote, ‘Heed, alle gathered here, that tonight we call down Forces most ancient to demande Protection, and bind them in an Oath earthly and unbreakable. By the Fortitude of this Daughter of Eve, so shalle Darkness be brought to heel and Light conscripted into service. May She who hath blessed this Ground protect Her servant, and lend strength to her Hande as she tameth Satan’s emissary.’”

“Amen,” Newt responded smartly, having taken great care to memorize his cues in the days leading up to this. 

“Firstly,” Aziraphale continued. “She standeth in the Circle, and draw those in need of Amnesty unto her breast.”

Anathema picked up the sachet and looped the leather string over her head. Filled as it was with hair, feathers and a few dried wolfsbane flowers, it weighed practically nothing, but still a sense of presence settled over her heart as it came to rest around her neck.

“Let her Power be fortified by October’s stone.”

The opal ring went onto Anathema’s right ring finger. It was ice cold, and goosebumps traveled up her arm.

“She shall call the Demon by his name, and summoneth him to the Circle.”

That had been a point of minor controversy when Anathema had been working out the details. There were no steps elucidating exactly how the demon in question was meant to be summoned. Anathema wondered if that meant that it was up to the spell-caster’s preference, or if summoning demons was supposed to be such old hat for her at this point that she didn’t need instructions, or if there had been such instructions and Agnes had simply left them out, knowing Anathema wouldn’t really need them. As it was, she had found no reason to not keep this part simple.

“Crowley,” she said. “Would you please step into the circle?”

The demon, hands in his pockets and still wincing from the contact with the holy ground, sidled between the candles until he was standing in front of Anathema, looking down at her from over the tops of his glasses.

“Alright?” he asked her. There were a lot of questions packed into those two syllables, some of which had radically different answers.

“Cold,” she decided on, rubbing her hands together and smiling ruefully. 

Crowley laughed. “Yeah, not big on central heating, this country. I’d say you get used to it, but you really don’t.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“If you’re both ready? Quote, ‘Let him be bound with Argent pure, that his Maleficence be contained, yet his Virility unhindered.’ Now, the picture of this step looks rather complicated…”

“I think we can skip most of that,” Anathema cut in. Aziraphale looked a bit miffed at the interruption, but Crowley visibly relaxed. “My guess is the original spell was assuming some…aggression on the demon’s part. Something symbolic should do.” 

She picked up the silver chain and draped it around Crowley’s neck. “There. Let me know if you think your maleficence is too much for this.”

“Not very nice, is it?” Crowley ran the chain between two long fingers. “Imagine you’re just trying to get through a long day of corrupting souls and suddenly you’re summoned to some rotten old church to play naked Twister without anyone even buying you a drink first. You’d feel entitled to a little aggression too.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I don’t think the original creator of this spell really took the demon’s feelings into account.” Anathema said this with no trace of sarcasm, and Crowley responded with a small smile.

“Can’t be helped. Right, consider me bound yet unhindered. What’s next?”

Anathema considered herself an extremely confident person. She could go to parties where she didn’t know anybody, she had successfully wrangled with customs agents on four continents, she could call her local congressperson and tell their staff exactly what she thought of recent relaxations of anti-fracking laws. She had been telling herself, up to this point, that when the time came she would have the confidence to look Crowley in the eye (or sunglasses, as it were) and state, clearly and unambiguously, exactly what the next step entailed.

She looked into his sunglasses. She could see her own face turning red.

“Um,” she said. 

There was a horrible stretch of silence that probably lasted about five seconds, but felt much longer.

“If we’re to consult the text,” Aziraphale jumped in, to Anathema’s mingled relief and panic, “it states ‘She taketh her Pleasure of the demon, that the shades and shaddowes may know her Power. Let him be broken at her Altar, and let him so remain, unto her total fulfillment.’ The accompanying image-“

“That’s fine, I think we’ve got it,” Crowley interrupted hastily. “Right, then. Well. Whoever wrote this spell wasn’t much for foreplay, were they? Maybe it would be better if we, uh, eased into it.”

He addressed this last part to Anathema, who nodded. “That might be best. If, um, you two don’t mind it taking a little longer?”

Newt shook his head, but Aziraphale looked worried.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to deviate from the text?”

“We’re already deviating.” Crowley held up the chain around his neck for emphasis. “I’m supposed to be chained up, right? For all we know, that’s the reason the steps are so abrupt.”

“I suppose…Miss Device, what do you think?”

Anathema carefully weighed her answer. “So, the purpose of this ritual is kind of…occult grandstanding, in a way. Intercourse with a demon is meant to show whatever forces I’m hoping to control that I’m not someone to be trifled with. So I think it’s important that that intent come from a place of authentic confidence. Which would be easier, for me at least, if we, uh, warmed up a bit first.”

She looked between the three of them. Newt looked impressed, Aziraphale pensive. Crowley rubbed his hands together briskly.

“Okay, lads, you heard the witch.” He waved a hand at the borrowed air mattress. “Why don’t you join me over here? Might be easier without me fidgeting so much.”

There was a short interlude of jostling and rearranging of elbows and knees as they both folded themselves into seated positions on the air mattress. Crowley looked at the floor around them the way a passenger in a leaky boat looks at dark, possibly piranha-infested waters.

“Might be tricky for both of us to stay on this thing,” he muttered.

“Yeah, sorry,” Anathema said. “I sort of assumed it would be bigger, and Madame Tracy didn’t bring it over until yesterday. And it’s apparently impossible to buy camping equipment in England in the middle of winter.”

Crowley laughed. “Alright. Well.”

“Well…?”

“Er, why don’t we start simple? I’ll just…”

He sort of tilted his body toward hers and pressed their lips together. A prickle of nerves ran down Anathema’s spine and then settled in her stomach. Crowley’s lips were dry and soft and tasted vaguely of mint. As far as kisses went it was pleasant enough, but also impossible for her to forget that they were practically strangers, they were both involved with other people, and they were doing this for decidedly un-erotic reasons.

She closed her eyes and tried to shove all that out of her mind. Her first kiss with Newt had been under unusual circumstances too, after all, and they had made it work. But they’d thought they were about to die. Maybe that was the key, maybe she needed the sense of danger. Well, kissing a demon was dangerous, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t that be enough?

“Is something wrong?” Crowley pulled back from her, alarmed. “You sort of, uh, froze up on me there.”

‘Yeah, sorry, just thinking. Um.” Anathema leaned in and kissed him this time, experimentally moving her lips against his. At least he seemed to know what he was doing, she noticed. No tongue-thrusting, no scraping of teeth. Fine. This was fine.

She heard a laugh from Newt that he frantically tried to turn into a cough when they both looked up at him.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s just…” He put his hand over the lower half of his face to hide another giggle.

“I think it’s the hands,” Aziraphale commented, clearly trying to stifle laughter of his own.

Anathema looked down. She and Crowley both had their hands folded primly in their laps, not to mention the ramrod-straight backs and shoulders of pious churchgoers. 

“Well, give us a minute, would you?” Crowley snapped. He turned back to Anathema and put his right hand on her waist, guided her hand up to his left shoulder. “That better?”

“Now you look like primary-schoolers at your first boy-girl dance,” Newt offered.

“Honey, this really isn’t helping,” Anathema replied through gritted teeth.

“Right, sorry, carry on.” Newt leaned over to whisper something to Aziraphale, and the angel snorted laughter into his sleeve.

Crowley sighed heavily. “Could you two, I don’t know, chant something? Scatter some herbs?”

“Yes, why don’t we do that?” Aziraphale agreed, still trying to hide a smile. “Newton, can you go through the supplies and locate the Devil’s Bit? That’s those purple flowers, there’s a good lad.”

With the two of them sufficiently distracted, Crowley turned back to Anathema as if to continue kissing her, then stopped.

“Hang on.”

He took his glasses off, folded them neatly and tucked them into an inside pocket of his coat. The bright gold of his eyes was startling in the flickering candlelight.

Anathema took off her own glasses and they kissed again. It was easier this time, and she tried to just focus on the sensations, the giddy swoop that came with touching someone new. Crowley’s hand slid up the curve of her waist to just below her ribs, fingers flexing curiously. His thumb brushed against the underside of her right breast, and they both froze.

“Is that…?” He trailed off into some strangled consonants. “I mean, should I? Or would you prefer I didn’t?”

“No, no, it’s fine,” she answered hurriedly. “Fine with me. You don’t _have_ to, obviously…”

“Obviously,” he echoed. His hand moved to cradle her breast through the thin velvet of her robe. “Alright?”

“Yes.”

“Great…” His other hand moved from her shoulder to her thigh, squeezing gently. “Maybe we should just, y’know, pretend? Like this is just a date that happens to be going well and all, uh, _this_ -“ he waved his hand at the air mattress and the candles- “-is cause I just moved into this flat or something. Also the power’s out. And, er, the heat.”

“Why on earth would you bring a young lady back to your flat under those circumstances?” Aziraphale piped up.

Crowley closed his eyes. “Aziraphale, _please_ -“

“For that matter, what kind of girl would go with someone who has an air mattress for a bed?” Newt added.

“Hey!” Anathema said.

“Perhaps I am just _that bloody charming_.” Crowley clenched and unclenched his jaw. “I am, in fact, _so irresistible_ that Anathema has decided she simply _has_ to have me, furnishings be damned, and it doesn’t matter that there’s no sodding heat because we’re both just _burning_ with desire, and _fucking hell,_ you two, none of this is going to work if you can’t _shut up_ -“

Aziraphale and Newt were both shaking with repressed snickering. Anathema felt the situation rapidly starting to unravel past the point of salvageability, and decided to throw caution to the winds.

She unfastened the clasps holding the robe closed, shrugged it off her shoulders, climbed onto Crowley’s lap, grabbed the demon’s face between her palms and kissed him with as much theatrical passion as she could muster.

She hadn’t bothered wearing anything underneath the robe. She heard Crowley make a startled _mmph_ sound, and then he grabbed onto her hips, most likely for balance. Things did feel a bit unsteady like this, so she pulled away and slid off his lap onto her back, motioning for him to follow her.

“Looks like you and I are going to have to be the adults, here.” She looked up at him, and he nodded, tensely. “Just…do what you would normally do, okay? I’ll tell you if something isn’t working for me. Promise.”

Crowley glanced at Aziraphale and then at Newt, and whatever understanding passed between them was apparently enough. He peeled his coat and shirt off and then stretched out next to her, running a hand over the smooth skin of her belly. The bare skin of his chest was warm and she instinctively rolled toward it, pressing the lengths of their bodies together and bringing their lips to touch once more. He bit her bottom lip a little this time, waited a cautious moment for a protest that didn’t come, then did it again. He trailed a line of soft bites down her neck, strangely careful and precise in their placement. It tickled, and she couldn’t help but squirm.

“Alright?” he asked again, his breath hot against her collarbone.

“Yes,” she answered. “It doesn’t hurt, if you’re worried about that.”

“Hmm? Oh, no, I just…thought it might be rude to leave marks.” 

“Thank you, that’s very considerate.”

Newt and Aziraphale had conscientiously turned their attention back to the book, were speculating in quiet voices over the next instructions. 

“Right. Might need you to shift up a bit here…”

There was another short interlude of jostling that ended with Anathema half hanging off the edge of the mattress, all the better to spare Crowley from having to touch the floor more than absolutely necessary. It wasn’t terribly dignified, but she tried to put it out of her mind as she leaned her head back against the rough carpet. 

Newt cleared his throat.

She twisted her neck to look up at him, worried. Crowley fell still somewhere just south of her ribs.

“You should, you know…” Newt gestured at her discarded robe and made a folding motion with his hands. “For your head.”

Anathema blinked. “Oh. Yes. Good idea.”

The robe formed a decent makeshift pillow and also had the added benefit of blocking off some of her peripheral vision. Anathema closed her eyes as Crowley tracked lower, until at last his hands came to gently ease her thighs apart.

 _Relax_ , she told herself. _Think of it like getting a pelvic exam. In a church basement. With your boyfriend and a six-thousand-year-old angel in a bowtie watching. No, this isn’t helping._

“Can’t say I feel all that broken, down here,” Crowley said. “Do you think that bit’s important?”

“Maybe fake it, just in case,” Anathema told the ceiling.

Long, slender fingers drummed against her hipbone. “That had better not be _your_ plan, love.”

The absurdity of the situation hit Anathema again and she laughed, a sound that quickly turned into a gasp as Crowley chose that exact moment to flick his tongue out. It traveled up her slit and back down again, lewdly curious. She shuddered.

“Too much?” he breathed.

Anathema shook her head, then remembered her probably couldn’t see her. “N-no,” she managed. “No, it’s fine, you’re ffff-“ Her voice cut off as he made another pass and then _rolled_ his tongue against her, an oddly dexterous motion that made her twitch. She moaned before she could stop herself.

“You’ll tell me, yesss?” His voice had a darker, huskier quality than it had a moment ago. “If I do something you don’t like?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She bit her lip as her clit was lavished with attention for about ten seconds, before he stopped again.

“And I suppose it’s up to you what ‘total fulfillment’ means.” Another ten seconds of slow, lazy circles of his tongue, then another maddening pause. “Got a number in mind? Or shall you just tell me when you’ve had enough?”

“ _Crowley_.” Aziraphale’s voice, dryly amused.

“What?”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Think it’s pretty obvious what I’m doing,” Crowley shot back.

“Not that. You’re being…vainglorious.”

“Heaven forbid,” he chuckled.

“Okay, maybe now’s a good time for the running commentary to ssssto- oh my _God_.”

Anathema raised her head. Crowley was grinning, eyes gleaming and hot. This time she clearly saw the forked shape of his tongue as it flickered out between his teeth, and then she couldn’t see anything because she was too busy squeezing her eyes shut and biting back on a throaty, urgent moan.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she managed.

“Told you I’ve done this before,” came the growled response, and then that was, mercifully, the last thing he said for a while.

She wasn’t sure what to do with her hands, worried that tangling them in his hair as was her instinct would be a step too far. This had none of the hormone-soaked rush of a sudden tryst; this was like being _tuned_ , as an instrument is tuned. Her climax was a foregone conclusion, as inevitable a consequence as a violin string breaking if you twisted the peg too far. 

Perhaps with similar auditory results. Ironic detachment was well and truly out the window at this point. Well, at least they could be reasonably sure the shades and shaddowes had gotten the message.

True to his promise, Crowley didn’t stop when the snapping-tense muscles in her legs relaxed, just paused a moment to take a breath before bringing her to the peak again with alarming precision. This time she did grab at him when she finally got her voice back.

“S-stop,” she gasped. “Stop, I- that’s- that’s enough.”

To his credit, he stopped immediately, pulling away with a light kiss to her stomach before moving onto all fours, letting her pull herself into a seated position. She rolled her eyes at the extremely smug look on his face and huddled her robe around her shoulders to hide the fact that she was still shaking a little.

“Something’s happening,” Aziraphale commented. He stood at the edge of the circle, looking as put-together as ever, expertly cradling the spell book in one hand. A reverent sort of hush had come into his voice, wildly different from the affable tone he’d been speaking in before. “Can any of you see it?”

Newt shook his head. Crowley squinted and made a see-sawing gesture with his hand. Anathema concentrated. She could sense _something_ , although it was difficult to assign any physical attributes to it. Reality itself seemed softer, more malleable. She looked at Crowley, twisting his neck from side to side to make the bones pop, and it suddenly seemed absurd to think that he would ever pass for human. His aura, she realized, had changed. Normally both he and Aziraphale were able to hide their true natures from people like her (or so she had been told), but now looking at Crowley’s made her head hurt in a way a human’s aura never had. It was like trying to look at an image copied a thousand times on transparent paper, then laid over each other just out of alignment, lines upon lines that suggested an image more than defined it.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Something’s happening.”

She felt different too, she realized. The sachet hung heavy against her breastbone, warmed to her body temperature, feeling like something alive. Something fragile and soft that she could protect or destroy, whichever she chose.

“Okay.” From inside her head, her voice sounded deeper, more resonant. “I think we’re on the right track. Crowley, you’re going to need to…” She gestured vaguely at him. “Undress the rest of the way.”

“Right.” The demon raised his hand in a sort of “pre-snap” gesture, but Aziraphale was already shaking his head. 

“Best to do it the human way, dear. We don’t want any interference.”

“Oh. Yeah. Good point,” he answered with an embarrassed flash of teeth. “I’ll, uh, just be a minute.”

“Wait, is that really the only way you get your pants on and off?” Anathema tried to keep the amusement out of her voice, but it was very difficult to do so while also watching Crowley attempt to strip from the waist down without falling off the air mattress.

“’S’called efficiency,” he snapped, yanking impatiently at the clinging black leather. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t do it if you could.”

“Sloth,” Aziraphale stage-whispered to Newt. “Some of us do prefer to take proper care of our clothes. I’m sure you’ll understand…someday.” He smiled at Newt’s Flaming Lips t-shirt. Newt followed his gaze and frowned, unsure if he’d been the target of an insult or just the accessory to one. 

Anathema went over to help divest Crowley of the rest of his clothing, presumably to speed things along but also to surreptitiously get a look at what he had below the belt. The illustrations in the spell book, and Crowley’s subsequent follow-up texts, had left her more than a little worried about what she was going to encounter. 

He caught her looking immediately, and flashed his teeth again. “So, I don’t normally walk around with something like this…”

Despite such a troubling statement, the situation was actually much better than it could have been. Anathema knew how men tended to get carried away with certain things, and was concerned that Crowley had viewed the illustrated demon’s proportions as a challenge to be met, or, God forbid, bested. Not to mention all the possibilities raised by the whole “snake biology” thing. No, what Crowley had was, as far as she could tell, one-hundred percent human, and humanly-proportioned. If a bit, well, _generous_ might be the appropriate word.

“Is it going to be alright?” Crowley asked. “Just with the text being so specific, I was worried…”

“We thought it best if he were to do some restructuring,” Aziraphale spoke up at the same time.

Crowley winced. “For fuck’s sake, angel, you’re making it sound like a university building.”

“It’s not _that_ big,” Aziraphale replied with a smirk.

“It’s fine,” Anathema assured him, wanting to get the spell back on track before the air of potential faded away. “Okay, um, why don’t you lay down? ‘She rideth him like Lilith rode uppon Adam,’ that’s pretty clear, isn’t it?”

“You’re _much_ better company than Lilith,” Crowley remarked as he reclined back. “I got stationed with her in Caligula’s court for two weeks. Terrible collaborator, no big-picture thinking whatsoever.”

His babbling was the only indication that he might have been nervous. Anathema gingerly climbed on top of him, her knees coming to rest on either edge of the narrow mattress. She laid one hand on the center of his chest, more of a stabilizing gesture than an intimate one.

“Aziraphale, Newt.” She tried to sound authoritative. Spell-casting was all about confidence; she would only hinder the process by allowing herself to feel self-conscious. “Please begin the invocation.”

After a moment’s shuffling of pages and throat-clearing, the two of them begin to recite the Sumerian words, Newt a quarter-step behind as he struggled with the pronunciations but gamely pushing ahead.

The spell’s instructions echoed in Anathema’s mind as she focused on her breathing. _As a Citadel is claimed in battel, so he breacheth her Womb. Let her draweth his Seed that it may nourish her Power, let her calleth forth the Darkness that Shields._

There was a pulse in Crowley’s neck that jumped as Anathema slowly settled her weight onto him. He seemed to be trying very hard to keep still, to not thrust up into her. She caught his eyes, noticed a tiny crease form between his brows and had to suppress the sudden urge to put her lips to it.

“Not hurting you, am I?” he asked.

Anathema smiled. “Of course not.” She started to rock her hips and Crowley’s breath caught in his throat. “I’ve done this before too, you know.”

One of Crowley’s hands curled around her to cradle the small of her back, pulling her more firmly against him, grinning when that earned him a gasp from her.

“Is there something I’m meant to be doing?” He was watching her face closely, eyes hooded. “Not really my style to just lie here.”

The chanting set a rhythm that Anathema tried to match. She ran her finger over the chain Crowley still wore.

“Try to think- demonic thoughts?” she advised. “Think of it- like a performance.”

“That what you’re doing? Thinking witchy thoughts?”

“Something like that.” Without knowing she was going to do it, Anathema wrapped the chain around her hand, not quite enough to pull it taut but definitely enough for Crowley to feel it. The demon’s eyes went wide.

“So it’s like that?” His tone was sly, now. Almost mocking. “Very well, sorceress. Do your worst!”

“I- wait, what?”

“I’m playing it up, aren’t I? Let’s give the forces of darkness a real show.” He winked at her, then quickly switched to a scowl. “You may have your way with me, but you’ll never truly wield Satan’s power!”

Anathema furiously bit the inside of her cheek. “Silence, demon!” she snapped once she had composed herself. She twisted the chain a bit, and Crowley arched up against her.

“That all you got?” he snarled. “Should have stuck with tea leaves, _hag_.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Sorry!” Crowley’s voice returned to normal. “Over the line?”

“No need- to fall back on- outdated stereotypes,” Anathema advised. She was becoming, she noticed, very short of breath.

“Right. Um, how about…You’re wasting your time, charlatan! You’ll never be worthy of my seed!”

This time she was unable to keep herself from laughing, and so tried to turn it into a triumphant cackle. With the hand not holding the chain, she gripped Crowley’s chin. 

“Don’t count on that, _fiend_ ,” she hissed, and then she reached out with her will and _pushed_. Trying to convince the universe that yes, the conditions of the spell were met, and yes, she was worthy of the results.

“What- oh, _fuck_ ,” Crowley gasped.

There was a tearing sound, a piercingly loud _pop_ , and then a lurch as the surface supporting them changed drastically. Anathema had time to think _What the-_ before the room tumbled and she found herself flipped onto her back, earning a nasty carpet-burn on her elbows in the process.

“Ow,” she said mildly.

“Sorry, sss-sorry!” Crowley stammered. They were still tangled together, the demon grimacing from the contact with the bare floor. His wings arced up over the both of them, black and iridescent, stunning despite the scraps of pink rubber that were still adhering to them. To Anathema’s right, the air mattress lay in tattered ruins. “I sort of panicked.”

Anathema goggled up at the sudden manifestation. “Was that supposed to happen?”

“How on earth should I know?”

“It’s okay,” she panted. She craned her neck to look around for Newt and Aziraphale, found them hovering near the edge of the circle behind her. “It’s okay, we’re fine, don’t stop. It’s working.”

The pair exchanged nervous looks, but after a moment resumed chanting. Anathema looked back up at Crowley.

“Do they hurt? We can take a break if you need.”

Crowley shook his head. His wings folded down over them, careful not to touch the floor. 

“Grab on,” he whispered harshly. There was a fine sheen of sweat along his forehead.

“What?” Anathema was dizzy, from the sudden movement and the soporific chanting and the power, thick and heavy in the air. 

“Do it,” Crowley hissed. He was still thrusting, shallowly, his arms shaking as they held him up. “You want to. I know you do.”

She ran her hands up the skin of his back until her fingers brushed against feathers. “Are you sure?”

“Fucking yesss, _please_.”

The pleading tone in the demon’s voice pushed her back into her role, cleared her head. She was the spell-caster; this circle was her domain. If she wanted to touch Crowley’s wings, she would.

She didn’t want to hurt him, though. She carefully threaded her fingers through the glossy feathers, holding on firmly but not pulling. Crowley groaned and dropped his head low, the damp ends of his hair falling against the sachet on her chest. 

“Are we still acting?” she asked breathlessly.

“Uhhh…” Crowley gritted his teeth. “You can if you want to, I’m a bit- ah- preoccupied…”

“You’re close?”

“That and, y’know, this.” He held up one hand, already turning blistered and red from prolonged contact with the consecrated ground.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed without thinking.

“’S’fine, really,” he replied with a wince. “Just- please don’t say that again.”

“Come on,” she told him, giving the feathers a gentle tug. “I think you’ve suffered enough.”

He barked with laughter, or maybe it was a sob. In any case, she felt his climax behind it, jolting through the both of them, making his wings shiver under her hands. 

The energy in the circle flared and changed; Anathema perceived it as the moment a fire is lit, the split second that smoke and heat coalesce into a flame. With the part of her that sensed such things, she reached out and caught it, brought it to her core and held on, clutching it tightly even as her physical body relaxed.

Crowley was already moving, scrambling out her way. The sachet glowed, some mysterious incandescence piercing through the fibers. Anathema hurried to her knees and wrapped the little cloth bag in her hands, bowing her head over it and whispering the final incantation.

There was a cold rush of air through the windowless room. All the candles went out, plunging them into total darkness. Anathema ignored it. She clutched the sachet and concentrated on protecting what was inside.

Around her, she heard a few thumps and curses, then Aziraphale’s voice declaring, “Let there be light.”

A soft, white glow filled the room. Anathema looked up.

Crowley was on his knees, wings wrapped around himself, Aziraphale behind him with a protective hand on his shoulder. Newt was seated, one hand in the bag of emergency supplies they had brought, the other rubbing at his shin as if it pained him. His glasses were slightly askew.

Anathema took a deep breath and opened her hands. The cloth bag lay bunched, lightly singed, empty.

The sense of calm that washed over her was not a post-coital glow but the bone-deep satisfaction of a difficult task accomplished.

“It worked,” she said.

Newt limped over to her with a bottle of water in one hand, her discarded robe in the other. He gently pulled the velvet around her shoulders. 

“Of course it did.”

Exhaustion caught up with her in the time it took to drain half the water bottle. She thought about standing up and then sort of slumped back into Newt’s arms instead. 

“You’re very beautiful,” he whispered, and kissed her lightly on the temple.

In her psychically-drained state, Anathema took in the denouement as a series of disjointed flashes. Here was Aziraphale, picking shreds of rubber off Crowley’s wings, then whispering something in his ear that made them both laugh. Here she was, bracing one hand on Newt’s shoulder for support as she pulled on the sensible leggings and sweater she’d packed for afterwards. At one point she figured she must really be in need of some sleep, because she could have sworn Crowley was supervising the cleanup while clinging to the ceiling. When they finally made it outside the cold night air perked her up a little, but she could still tell a tremendous crash was imminent.

“Thank you,” she said, gripping Crowley’s hands and then Aziraphale’s as the four of them gathered by the cars. “For everything. I think…I think we did it. I think we’re all safe now.”

“Safe as can be, anyway.” Crowley surprised Anathema by hugging her, the sharp angles of his body already feeling foreign once again. “You’re a hell of a witch, love. Those squares in Tadfield better mind their p’s and q’s.”

There were a few more awkward parting exchanges, gentle reminders to drive safely, a couple minutes of shivering and rubbing of hands while Dick Turpin warmed up. Anathema scanned the horizon for mysterious headlights or menacing birds, saw nothing but empty, snow-covered feels and the dark, cozy shapes of houses.

“Do you think we ought to compensate Madame Tracy?” Newt asked as he put the car in gear. “For the mattress?”

“She told us to just keep it,” Anathema answered sleepily, leaning her head against the window, appreciating the bracing cold against her skin. “We should check up on them, though. Make sure the spell worked.”

“It worked,” Newt assured her. “Even I could see something happened. That was, uh…” He blushed and glanced over at her. “Quite a performance.”

Anathema smiled and took a fake bow from her seat. “Thank you, I’ll be here all week.”

“You know, Tracy probably won’t be expecting that robe back for a while,” Newt mused. “If you wanted to, er, reprise the role sometime.”

“Oh, I actually had something else in mind for you.”

The car swerved a bit. “You, uh, what now?”

“Let’s just say I found some interesting stuff at the jumble sale last weekend.”

“Oh. _Oh_.”

She leaned over and kissed the shell of Newt’s ear.

“Eyes on the road, sweetheart.”

~*~*~*~

In the flat above Aziraphale’s bookshop, Crowley stretched over the old-fashioned four-poster bed, eyes closed. Aziraphale was rubbing something into his palms and the burned skin of his knees, something that smelled green and soothing.

“Oh, that’s about a thousand times better,” he sighed. “I take back everything I said about regretting bringing you.”

Aziraphale’s hands stopped moving. “I don’t recall you saying anything about that.”

“Didn’t I? Well, I meant to. Honestly, angel. _Vainglorious?_ ”

“You know, that could be interpreted as a compliment.”

Crowley rolled onto his stomach and raised his eyebrows. “Could it now?”

Aziraphale shrugged noncommittally. “As far as deadly sins go, that one _is_ rather fetching on you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Oh, I hope so.” 

“Hmm, gonna hold you to that.” Crowley nestled his head into the pillow, then opened his eyes again as he heard a faint buzzing. “That my phone?”

“Ah, no, it’s…mine, actually,” Aziraphale admitted sheepishly.

Crowley raised his head, incredulous. “Since when do you have a mobile phone?”

“A few weeks now, I suppose. I got to talking with the head chef at Masuki, and he mentioned that people keep these sort of Internet diaries where they go to restaurants and publish pictures of the food and I thought that sounded interesting, and then Newton invited me to something called a ‘group chat’…”

“Bless, he has no idea what he’s done, has he? Well, who’s texting you?”

“Er, Madame Tracy. ‘How’d it go?’ she says. There’s also a couple of pictures. A little winking face and, um, is that an eggplant?”

“ _What?_ ”

“Oh, hang on, here comes another message. ’Sorry, sent to wrong person.’ How odd. I wonder what that symbol means?”

“No idea. Perhaps she has a friend she gardens with.”

“That must be it. Is there anything else you need, darling?”

“Nah.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, touched it briefly to his lips, and collapsed back against the pillow. “This is pretty much perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> With apologies to U2 fans and absolutely no one else.


End file.
